


Bound by Chance

by Juliette_Deroulede



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juliette_Deroulede/pseuds/Juliette_Deroulede
Summary: A young aristocrat girl, living during the French Revolution, is sentenced to death by Republican Marriage. Will the Scarlet Pimpernel, the mysterious English hero, show up in time to save her? Or is she doomed to die?Please let me know what you think in the comments below! This is my first fanfic and I really appreciate all comments and suggestions! Thank you!
Kudos: 2





	Bound by Chance

Bound by Chance

Part One

Silence. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire on the hearth. Aurelie Antoine’s hands trembled as she struggled to focus on the dainty crocheted lace beneath her fingers. In spite of the comforting warmth from the fire, she shivered. More from fear than from the cold. Fear of the inevitable—of impending disaster.

For months had she heard the gruesome, frightening tales of the aristocrats—marquis, dukes, vicomtes—even the royal family themselves—dragged from their homes. Thrown into dark and dirty dungeons. Heckled, starved, tortured until at last they were taken into the public square and forced to mount the steps of the guillotine.

Aurelie was an aristocrat. A duke’s daughter. This was the reason for her fear. She loved her country, loved her king and queen, loved life. That is, she loved the life that had been. The life that was no more. Bright, gilded ballrooms. The soft frou-frou of silk dresses on a marble floor. The tinkle of the harpsichord and the gentle strains of the violin. Flickering candlelight. Laughter and music.

The room in which Aurelie now sat was bare and empty. Less than three months had passed since the cruel, angry mob had ransacked the once beautiful home. Gold and silver, priceless antiques, works of art, all had been carried away or destroyed. The servants had fled in fear. Aurelie would never forget the terror of that night. The raucous laughter of the peasants as they clambered through the gilded halls. The crash of broken glass. Her mother’s screams. Aurelie had knelt by her father’s side after he collapsed to the ground in agony. Tears in her eyes, she had clung to his hand as he breathed his last. Not more that a week later, she knelt by her mother’s bedside, her heart breaking. A delicate, gentle woman, used to luxury and peace, her mother had died for sorrow. Aurelie was alone now. Alone except for old Marie, her nursemaid. Marie had stayed of love for her aristocratic mistress—out of peril for her own life.

A quiet knock came on the door, splintered and dented by the angry fists of peasants.

“Entrez,” Aurelie called softly. Slowly the door swung open on battered hinges and Marie’s wrinkled, kindly face appeared.

“Would Mademoiselle like her supper?” she spoke with a curtsey. Although Aurelie was the only member of the family left, although she and Marie lived alone, in hiding, although everything was destroyed that once was, the faithful old servant insisted on serving her young mistress as she always had.

“Oui, Marie. I thank you.” As the maid curtseyed and backed out the door, Aurelie laid aside her handwork with an impatient sigh and leaned back in the hard, straight-backed chair. She allowed her dark eyes to wander restlessly over the room. The four-poster bed—its canopy torn down and the feather mattress torn by knives and bayonets, the rickety washstand with the chipped bowl, the cracked vase of wildflowers on the mantle. Those flowers were the only bright spot in a room filled with heartache and pain. Fresh in their dainty beauty, their untarnished petals filled Aurelie’s heart with a sense of calm. They seemed to tell her, _Fear not, all is well._

Aurelie smiled to herself. Even the terrorists in their raging hatred and cruelty could not stop the beauty of spring. The Lord in His infinite kindness and mercy had allowed the gentle grass, flowers, and leaves to hide the scars of the war-torn French countryside. In this one thing—the fresh spring breezes, the song of the birds, the perfume of the wildflowers—Aurelie was able to forget. Aye, forget all the terror of this evil, God-forsaken revolution.

“Tiens, Cherie.” Marie’s gentle voice interrupted the young girl’s thoughts. “Here is your supper. See, Jacques has brought by bread and cheese, and here is a bit of milk.”

“Merci, Marie.” Aurelie accepted her meagre repast with a cheerful smile. “Join me, please.” And she bowed her head with its glossy crown of dark hair to murmur a quiet prayer of thanksgiving.

“Cher Dieu, je te remercie pour tes bénédictions. Soyez avec nous et gardez-nous à l'abri de ceux qui nous souhaitent du mal. Au nom de ton Fils, Amen. 

“Oui,” Marie echoed. “Keep us safe from those who wish us harm.” She looked at her young mistress, with tender love in her eyes. “Mademoiselle, have you heard the news?” 

“Good news?” Aurelie asked, a tremor in her voice. 

“Oui, mon Cherie. Listen. The Marquis de Tryons and his family, remember they were imprisoned last week?” 

“Le bon Dieu have mercy!” Aurelie breathed, her face white. 

“They were spirited away out of the tumbril which bore them even then to the guillotine.” Marie continued, her eyes wide. “Report has it they were seen safe in England.” 

“In England?” Aurelie cried. “Blest haven of freedom! But—how?” Marie shrugged her thin shoulders. 

“No one knows for certain. Yet, it is said that mysterious English hero—” 

“The Scarlet Pimpernel!” Aurelie breathed. “Ah, how I thank God for this angel in disguise! Surely le bon Dieu sent him to us in this our hour of need!” 

Fain would she have said more but she stopped, suddenly, her face drained of color. Her hands shook perceptibly and she clasped them together to hide her nervousness. 

“Mademoiselle?” Marie cried out in sudden fear. “What is it?” 

“I—don’t know,” Aurelie murmured, rising from her chair. Silence reigned in the little room as both women strained to hear. A sound, far away, like the distant roar of a crowd. Closer and closer it came, terrifyingly close. Aurelie placed a hand over her beating heart. Marie folded her wrinkled hands, murmuring prayers through trembling lips. Time seemed to stand still. A terrible clatter sounded at the front door. 

“Ca ira!” 

“Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite!” 

“A la lanterne, aristos!” the shouts of an angry, vengeful mob. With a half-strangled cry of fear, Marie shrank into the corner. Aurelie was frozen, immobile, as if in a trance. She did not move. Tramping feet and blasphemous cries filled the air, coming closer to the room where the two women hid. At last, the splintered door gave way, the room filling with dirty ragged peasants, mingled with soldiers who wore the dreaded tricolor cockades on their hat-brims. 

“Down with the aristos!” they screamed. Aurelie still did not flinch. Her slim, girlish figure clad in simple, sky-blue linen, stood tall with pride in every fiber of her being. How she held courage, she never knew, as she was surrounded and seized by the soldiers, dragged from the room. She heard Marie’s cries but could not see her. Strange in this dreaded moment that she should have such calm. It was as if she knew, had been prepared for the final moment. She had known it was inevitable, that it would surely come. The end was here now. 

“God give me strength!” she whispered as she was marched through the gates of her home. She strained to catch a last glimpse of the vast mansion where she had been so happy. Here she had been born. Here she had known love and laughter, joy and sorrow. Here had she played with her cousins, here had she seen her mother and father die. And now she was being taken away—to die. And yet she felt at peace in spite of her inner terror. Soon she would be with her beloved parents. 

Part Two 

“Come, aristo!” the voice, deep, cruel, tinged with hatred, interrupted Aurelie’s quiet prayers. She rose from her knees, brushing the dank straw from her crumpled dress. The heavy iron door of her cell swung open, allowing a single beam of light to penetrate the darkness. Straining to see in the dim lighting, Aurelie stepped forward, her heart beating rapidly. 

“Am I to—” her voice faltered. She could not bring herself to say the words. Better to go quietly, not thinking of her cruel fate, the impending doom, but rather of her dear parents and the heavenly home that awaited her. 

“Silence, aristo!” the voice thundered. “Get out of there, you brat, and come with me!” The soldier gripped her arm with a grimy hand, jerking her from the cell and into the corridor. “Hurry, girl!” he snapped as she stumbled forward. “I don’t want to miss the fun!” Aurelie moistened her chapped lips and tried to swallow the fear in her throat. 

“Fun?” she faltered. 

“Aye!” he sneered. “We’re gonna have us a real weddin’ feast! After the marriage, of course.” 

“Marriage?” Aurelie repeated, baffled. 

“Haven’t ye heard of the republican marriages to take place tonight? Vive la Republique!” he answered, cackling as he hurried her along the passage. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Ye’ll see soon enough! Now shut up, you aristo brat!” with that, he yanked her along so forcefully that she nearly fell.

Part Three 

Aurelie’s guard hurried her out of the dungeon and into the warm, star-lit night. She lifted her face to the dark sky, breathing in huge gulps of the fresh spring air. The river lay just beyond the prison, rippling quietly, peacefully. A jeering crowd stood on the bank, yelling out the never-ending Ca Ira. Aurelie was pushed towards a group of young women, who stood, silent and trembling apart from the crowd, yet surrounded by the leering soldiers. A group of young men stood nearby, also guarded closely by the Republic’s evil men. The noise of the crowd grew louder as, one by one, the soldiers seized a man and a woman, bound them together back-to-back, and flung them into the river. The air was filled with the roar of the people, mingled with the feeble cries of the drowning. Aurelie turned her face away, tears flowing down her cheeks. 

“Horrible!” she muttered through clenched teeth. “Is this their republican marriage?” 

“Aye.” A girl in a tattered silk dress with stringy, dirty blond hair, answered her wearily. They drown a man and woman together like that and call it a marriage. I suppose it’ll be the only wedding I’ll ever know. Oh, Paul!” she gasped suddenly, with a piercing shriek, then buried her face in her hands and wept. Aurelie looked back at her cry, seeing a young man in tattered finery being bound to a young girl. 

“Gabrielle!” he cried, turning his head towards the sobbing girl at Aurelie’s side. Aurelie closed her eyes tightly, praying out loud to drown out the terrified cries. All at once, she felt herself seized by rough hands, dragged from the group of girls. Never ceasing her murmured prayers, she offered no resistance as she was brought to the river’s edge. 

“Bring the boy!” one of the soldiers growled as he tightened his grip on the girl’s thin arm. She was trembling. Though she couldn’t see behind her, Aurelie could feel the hands of the young man close to her own as their wrists were lashed together. 

“Here’s your husband, aristo!” the soldiers jeered. Aurelie’s breath came fast and hard as she felt the ropes tied securely around her ankles, binding her to the man behind her. This was it! The end she had dreaded so long! 

Suddenly, a piercing whistle rose above the noise of the crowd. The soldiers froze. 

“There’s the signal!” one cried. 

“English spies!” the cry was taken up and the crowd surged back. 

“Come on, you fool!” the soldiers rushed to press through the crowd, heading away from the river. “Leave the aristos! They’ll not go anywhere. Don’t you know there’s a reward of 2,000 golden louis for the capture of those spies?” 

Rough hands pushed the bound captives away and the two fell to the rough cobblestone street, helpless. The riverside was a seething mass of chaos and confusion. Aurelie struggled to raise herself from the ground, yet could not move. 

“Are you alright?” It took her a moment to realize the soft question had come from her fellow captive. 

“Bon Dieu! I wish I was dead already.” She murmured weakly. 

“Don’t.” he said firmly. He had a deep voice, strong and reassuring. “While there’s life, there’s hope. If we can move and be hidden, perhaps they’ll forget about us. Maybe we can get away.” 

“How can we move?” Aurelie moaned. Her head ached where it had struck the cobblestones and her arms were already stiff with the bonds. “Try,” the young man grunted as he struggled to sit up. Aurelie summoned all the strength in her bruised body, willing herself to move. The crowd was screaming, dark figures rushing past in the night, not noticing the two captives and their desperate efforts to move. 

“It’s no use!” Aurelie sobbed, letting her weary head sink back to the ground. She felt herself losing consciousness. As if in a dream, she felt herself lifted, laid in the back of a cart. _No use,_ her mind repeated over and over. _Now they’re taking us to the guillotine. No use._

“Keep still!” a deep voice hissed. Aurelie started as she felt water splashing over her. Again and again, water was poured over the captives, drenching them from head to foot. 

“Do not move,” the voice continued. “Close your eyes. Let your bodies go limp. Pretend you’re dead.” With a lurch, the wagon began to slowly move forward, rattling over the rough cobblestones. Aurelie’s heart pounded. She could feel the pressure of the other’s hands against her own. He closed his hands around hers and she clung to him, gathering strength and comfort. 

The excitement of the crowd seemed to begin to die down. Or was it fading into the distance? Aurelie could not tell from where she lay. Unable to move, to afraid to open her eyes, she did not know where they were being taken. 

“Halt!” a voice called out and the wagon slowly pulled to a stop. “What do you have there?” 

“A bride and groom from the republican marriage tonight,” a deep voice laughed in response. “Too bad they didn’t live long enough to enjoy their honeymoon!” Aurelie held her breath as she felt the flickering light of a lantern on her face. She could feel the hands holding her own tighten their grip. 

“Why are they in your wagon and not at the bottom of the river?” 

“I fished ‘em out! The committee wanted a couple on display in the town square—an example to other aristos, eh?” Raucous laughter came from both the speaker and the enquirer. 

“Drive on, then!” the wagon again moved forward. Silence fell as it moved ever onward. Aurelie was sure now that they were outside the city. Why, she didn’t know. Suddenly, a thought flashed through her mind. _The Scarlet Pimpernel!_ Could this be the man who now drove them, seemingly to freedom? 

“I thank thee, le Bon Dieu”, she murmured through trembling lips. In spite of the warm night, she shivered in her damp clothes. Yet her heart was beating with joy. Her hopes rose higher and higher as the cart moved on through the night. 

It seemed like hours had they driven over rough countryside before the cart finally pulled to a halt. Aurelie felt gentle hands on her arm, felt cold metal slide along her wrists as the ropes which bound her to the young stranger were cut. Half-fainting with relief and cold, she felt herself lifted from the wagon. Only then did she release the hands she had clung to all during the long ride. 

“It’s all right now,” a deep voice said, somewhere above her as she felt herself carried in strong arms. “You’re safe.” 

Part Four 

Aurelie barely was conscious of what happened after that. She only knew of being handed into the care of a kindly old matron. Felt herself dressed in warm, dry clothes. Too tired to eat the soup offered her, she sank into a soft bed and slept, murmuring just before she drifted off her never-ceasing thanksgiving, “I thank thee, Bon Dieu.” 

When she woke the next morning, she found that she was in a small, wayside inn. Eager to meet her rescuer, she followed the matron down to breakfast. As she entered the main room of the tavern, she found she was alone.

“Don’t worry, Cherie.” The matron smiled kindly. “The others will be down soon. Won’t you have breakfast?” Footsteps sounded in the hall as a man entered, smiling cheerily. Tall and powerfully built, he looked English with blond hair and deep blue eyes. He addressed her in French—but with a foreign accent—as he bowed low in an aristocratic gesture of respect. 

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he began. “I trust you slept well?” 

“I—yes, thank you.” Aurelie faltered. The last few days’ trying ordeals had left her weak and nervous. Somehow that calm courage she had felt when facing certain death had slipped away and she felt only relief and weariness. It was then she noticed the younger man standing quietly in the background. 

“Sink me! But you two are quiet,” the older man grinned. “But I shouldn’t be surprised, seeing that you were married only just last night.” 

Aurelie felt a hot flush rise in her cheeks as she glanced shyly at the young stranger. 

“Are you…?” she did not finish. He nodded and stepped forward, smiling good-naturedly. 

“Le bon Dieu, He has been good to us.” he said quietly, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. “My name is Victor Dufort.” 

“And I am Aurelie Antoine.” She turned to the older man, her brown eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Monsieur, you are the Scarlet Pimpernel, oui? I am eternally grateful to you,” she began, but the man silenced her with a look from those merry blue eyes. 

“Dreadful noisy crowd last night,” he laughed carelessly. “I’ll wager they had quite a time looking for their English spy in all that confusion.”

Epilogue 

Many years have now passed since that awful night. Far away in free and merry England, Victor Dufort and his young bride Aurelie, now bound by legal and Christian vows rather than the evil schemes of cruel men, live happy and free. They enjoy society with some of the most illustrious personages in the land, including the wealthiest man in England—Sir Percy Blakeney, and his wife, Marguerite. Many a time have the two young people recounted that awful night and the daring rescue to a crowd of wide-eyed, spell-bound listeners. Music and laughter, the candlelight flickers and silk skirts swish over marble floors. Sir Percy yawns with boredom, protesting yet again the retelling of Victor and Aurelie’s story while the others denounce him for his jealousy of the mysterious hero. And Lady Blakeney and Aurelie exchange special smiles, for they know what others long to find out.


End file.
